Lucky Number
by Storymaster Caith
Summary: As the Kazekage, Gaara does gigantic amounts of paperwork. And sometimes, you stumble upon things you never expected while reading old mission reports. A Gaara-Kankuro brother fic, multichapter.
1. Paperwork for Kazekage

**Lucky Number**

**Part 1: Paperwork for Kazekage **

After the death of the Fourth Kazekage, the offices of Sunakagure had been, understandably, in a state of almost terminal chaos. Psychotically evil and malevolent bastard though he had been, Sabaku Arashi had done his paperwork and there was no way to get out of admitting that. So it was with grudging respect for the man he'd never called father that Sabaku-no-Gaara sat down at the wide wooden desk every morning and got to work. There was a betting pool going on down in the clerk's office about how long it would take the new Leader to work through the beauracractic sandstorm left behind, though the smart money was on a matter of weeks. After all, the Fifth Kazekage didn't have to _sleep. _

But even with this monumental advantage, there were some things Gaara simply couldn't be bothered with; older files were left in haphazard piles while the chaotic mess of the moment took up precedence. Trash paperwork that had never been tossed out, with a worry that someone somewhere might need whatever was scribbled on it. Late at night, when he had finished the immediate paperwork, Gaara would sometimes turn his attentions to these older files; they held pertinent information and oftentimes kept his mind from wandering until Temari would emerge, hazy-eyed and yawning, to make her younger sibling a pot of coffee.

Tonight was one such night.

Gaara glanced behind him. A sandstorm was rolling through; a smaller one, wouldn't last more than two hours, but every housewife in Suna would be out with their brooms the next morning, waging war against the elements. He blinked down at the manila folder in front of him.

_Kankuro Sabaku. Puppeteer Jounin. _

How this particular file had wound up in the pile-of-stuff-to-bury-in-sand-so-Baki-didn't-know-about-it, Gaara wasn't sure; he was certain that his older brother's missions file was something he should keep handy, seeing as Kankuro was a healthy Jounin and, barring any incredible unpleasantness in the future, would continue going on missions for quite some time.

Gaara flipped the file open.

**Name: Sabaku, Kankuro. **

**Age: 17**

**Rank: Jounin **

**Affilation: Puppeteer of Red Sands Journeyman Master **

**Blood Type: O **

**Height: 6' 1"**

**Weight: 130 **

**Team Members: Sabaku Gaara and Temari **

**Teacher(s): Mitsuki Baki, Elder Chiyo, Mitsuzaka Kadaj. **

**Missions: **

**D Rank: 26 Complete **

**C Rank: 15 Complete **

**B Rank: 10 Complete **

**A Rank: 9 Complete **

Gaara allowed his eyes to scan the information, taking it in. Most of it he knew; as Kankuro's default Team Leader, he had committed almost all of it to memory when they had unwillingly formed a team together at the beginning of their genin days. From Kankuro's specialized puppeteer training with Chiyo and Kadaj to his rank as journeyman, it was all old news.

Except for one thing.

Gaara felt his gaze stop at the A Rank listing.

It wasn't right.

It couldn't be; they as a team had only gone on six A rank missions, and most of those had merely been a case of 'Kill everyone and get out fast' meaning that while his siblings had stood by and kept an eye out, he'd decimated everything in his path. Very basic, very cut and dry. Only six, and they'd come back alive from each one. Most of them hadn't even been officially listed until a few months ago. Just six.

So why were nine listed?

It could be a clerical error. The desk ninja of Sunakagure were notoriously lazy, after all, and this had to be a newer copy of Kankuro's file, correcting some of the..oversights of their last leader. One hairless brow quirked in curiosity, Gaara flipped through the other papers in the thick folder. Medical reports, examination results, poison diagrams...soon he reached the mission reports, uniform pieces of paper with the same fill-in-the-blank format. The D rank reports were all filled in with Baki's neat, militaristic handwriting; the Wind Sword was a stickler for penmanship. As the missions got harder and they had learned to fill out their own paperwork, Baki had handed the reports over to the three of them; the copies of the C and B rank missions were all in Kankuro's surprisingly elegant, spidery calligraphy.

Gaara scrutinized them; they were the same ones Kankuro had shared with his siblings, to make sure their information was accurate before turning it in to the missions desk. Here were the A class missions; again, all neat and aristocratic, barring the few swearwords his brother liked throwing in for shock factor.

And here...

Gaara picked up the last three pieces of paper in the folder. They were also Mission Forms, and they too bore his brother's unmistakable hand; yet each and every one had a client and a name that Gaara had never seen before, and each bore the seal of the previous Kazekage...

Meaning these missions had been assigned to his older brother personally. By their father.

This disturbed Gaara slightly. There was once very little that the Sand Siblings could call familial connection. They were together as keepers and mindless weapon only, but in one thing they had always remained united, and that was the hatred of the man who had sired them. They had lamented him together (well, Kankuro and Temari lamented while he devised various methods of bloody execution in his head) and they had taken on his assignments together.

A seal of the Kazekage meant one of two things.

An ANBU mission, or a solo mission. And as far as Gaara knew, his older brother, dark and supremely twisted though he was, had managed to stay out of Sunakagure ANBU's puppeteer division, more commonly called The Spooks.

Gaara arranged the three reports side by side, steepling his hands in front of him. The sandstorm outside was reaching its peak; soon it would die down.

He began to read.

_**A/N: I know, I know, I shouldn't be starting new multi-chapters when the Shirt isn't done yet but this idea wouldn't leave me alone and I'm on a Kankuro kick. With any luck there will be five chapters to this piece, and any questions you might have (how did Gaara not know about the missions, why does Kankuro write so neat, etc) will be answered throughout. As per usual, review if you'd like- and if you fav my story, please review it and tell me why. I love knowing why. It makes my day. Constructive crit welcome, angry flamers please pm me personally so I can deal with your idiocy**_. _**Canon nazis...really. Go write your own completely-loyal-to-the-storyline fiction. **_


	2. First Act

**Part 2: First Act, Mission 1: Assassination**

"And then, well, you know father, he- GOODNESS!"

The girl walking down the street gave a soft cry of surprise as a heavy shoulder plowed into hers, nearly turning her around. Her nurse caught her by the arm, glaring angrily at the man who had nearly knocked her charge over. He finished stumbling and then looked up. He was dressed in a rough man's hakama- a working boy, with a badly sunburned nose and thick, mis-matched khol lines around his dark emerald eyes. He bit his lips nervously and patted dirty hands together.

"Oh my gosh- I'm so sorry!" he half-slurred his words; bowed low. "How clumsy of me, hime, forgive your humble servant."

The sharp-eyed woman opened her mouth to retort when a powder-white hand tapped her on the arm.

"It's alright. You apologized, so there is no need for punishment." The girl's voice was soft and firm and coiled under her sun umbrella. "You may go."

"Oh, thank you," the boy said adamantly, bowing repeatedly as he turned to leave. "Thank you so much! I'm sorry again!"

"Miya!" the nurse hissed. "Why did you let him go? He very nearly knocked you down! YOU, the favored child of the High Chancellor!"

"Oh, Rei, didn't you hear the way he was talking? And his clothes? The poor boy looked backwards- and besides, he had pretty eyes."

The woman inhaled sharply. "MIYA!"

"Oh, stop it. Father isn't here, I can say what I like about the men around me."

The woman sputtered and fussed for a little while before finally grabbing hold of the girl's arm and practically hauling her through the streets, ignoring the small pout that was forming on her charge's face. From a shadowy corner, the boy who had run into them watched them go. His too-wide mouth quirked into a smile that would make demons shudder.

"Oh, stop it." He mimicked, and the voice that came from his vocal cords perfectly matched that of the girl being lead away. He scratched at his nose, blinking down at the red flakes of makeup; he would need to find a deserted public fountain. He oozed further into the darkness and no one on the busy street would remember him, which was, of course, how he had been trained.

**oOo **

Kankuro hated politics.

He hated power plays, he hated pretending to like people he didn't. He hated bowing and scraping. He hated politics...which was probably why he was so damn good at them. After all, what were politics but one giant puppet show? Nothing but layers and layers of puppets being strung along by other puppets who had their strings held by even more puppets. It was enough work to make Chikamatsu Monzeimon Himself call it a day.

He watched through narrowed eyes as the guards changed rotation for the third time. On his back Karasu shuddered; the puppet wanted blood. He idly reached over and patted his oldest friend on the head.

"Soon." He promised softly, pinprick gaze settling on the nearest entrance.

The sun finally shifted below the horizon, casting long shadows down the thick stucco walls of the Miyagi Family Compound. Kankuro shifted his shoulders, sliding from the long pipe he had been crouching in like a snake emerging from the underbrush. A brush of wind and he was gone; hardly a footprint remained in the soft sand.

Chakra to fingertips and toes only; movements slow undulations. All bits of metal, if applicable, covered or muffled.

He recited the rule to himself as he crawled with ease up the walls, pausing in shadow. The moon would rise soon; against the stucco, with the pale light shining, his white-painted face would appear as merely another half-shadow. The only purple on him was the paint on his lips, this time, and two small grey dots over his eyebrows- the Kabuki genderless paint, the solo mission mask. He'd had to ask Frog to teach it to him.

_"The what? Crow, what the hell do you need to know that design for?!"_

Frog was older than he was, a Grand Master; without his white and green paint, he was handsome, blonde underneath his bunraku cowl. Temari would like him. Kankuro didn't know his name outside the Playhouse.

The second level was reached by a long, thin servant's ladder (Wind Country Nobleman's hired help rule number one, never hire servants who leave their ladders behind...) and a narrow walk. He traversed it easily, hooking his fingers onto the red tile of the roof and pulling himself up mere seconds before the next guard rounded the corner.

For a moment he crouched and observed the compound. The Miyagi were loaded; being the Chancellor of Wind Country would do that for a man. Too bad he'd been playing a little too closely with Fire Country merchants- and fire country ninja.

Kankuro's lips pulled back into an almost habitual snarl. Much more of this, he knew, and Sunakagure would disappear. Life in the desert was hard enough without adding lack of military funding to the extensive list of sorrows.

He crawled up the roof, eyes settling on a far window that still burned with a candle flame, though it was long past the time for working. He'd taken a copy of the compound's newest layout that very afternoon, committed it all to memory, like a good little ninja. That was the room he wanted, he was certain of it.

He held out his fingers, cracking them; the sound was muffled by the bandages that were rolling over his shoulders and down his chest to wrap neatly around his middle as Karasu ghosted over his head to land in front of him. Though his stomach was churning, Kankuro couldn't help but grin at his puppet.

Tied around his waist was a pouch, an elongated leather water canteen; he reached behind him and opened it up. Sand poured out, pooling obediently in Karasu's cloak; bits and pieces of it still glittered with his brother's chakra. Kankuro smiled down at it.

He had to be insane, if the thought of carrying around even a little of THAT sand made him feel safer, but it wasn't all of that horrible thing that his Team Leader called mother; the idea, though, had certainly come in handy.

"M'not Gaara," he muttered to Karasu, "But I'll do."

He twitched his fingers and the sand traveled up, coating his puppet's face and arms as his other hand moved through a series of genjutsu signs. The client had wanted it traumatic. The client had wanted it messy.

Ninja Rule Number 45: The Client always gets what he or she wants.

**oOo **

The knock on his office door was soft, gentle. Miya. He blinked the tiredness from his eyes and looked up.

"Enter."

She propped the door open. "Father?" she asked. "Why are you still up?"

He slid a hand across his desk, pushing a folio on top of the documents he had been studying. "Work waits for no man, my dear." He beckoned her into the room. Amongst his many possessions, Miya was his most prized; beautiful, well bred, well behaved. She sat obediently by his side, plucking nervously at the long blue sleeves of her kimono. He let his hand rest warmly on her thigh; her own small hand covered his.

"Father?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning to look at her, shifting closer, feeling comfortably warm.

"Why would you betray your country?"

He froze.

"What?" he asked harshly. Miya stood, looking at him with her usually empty, elegant eyes. "Why would you betray your country?" she asked again, clasping her hands behind her back.

He stood, pushing the desk back, fighting the rising panic. "Miya, my darling, I can explain!" he said. "It's- it's all a matter of politics, my child, and you know we've been going through lessons on that-"

"I hate politics."

He stared down at his daughter- at the long, thin knife that had emerged from her wrist, the mere quarter inch not buried in his stomach shining with a very light purple substance. He coughed up wetness.

"Miya.." he whispered. "Miya, why?"

"Don't ever betray Wind Country, father." The girl whispered, wrapping her knife-free hand around him and hugging him close. "I don't think I could take it. It makes me so sad."

The softest of clicks and he jerked his head back with a garbled shout as his daughter's embrace became sharp; she pulled away with a schluck and he fell, staring up at the six horizontal knives which had emerged from her breast.

"It really would make me sad, Father." She said, covered in red, staring down at him, grinning, "So you won't do it ever again, will you?"

He coughed, stared up at her. One arm moved, beseeching her and she knelt with a nod, pulling his head into her lap, brushing his hair away from his face like a good daughter would.

"Miya.." he hacked.

She smiled, leaned over. "Promise me you won't." She sing-songed.

He stared up at her. "I...I won't." He said weakly. "I swear I won't."

"Good."

She leaned forward and slanted her mouth across her father's and everything was going to be okay because his Miya still loved him and he could keep his promise as soon as the deal was done, minor upsets were to be expected in well-bred ladies such as her-

He didn't register the soft clicking noise until he felt something poking through the back of his skull. When the woman pulled away she allowed her jaw to rehinge itself; a swallowing motion brought the long poisoned needle back down her throat.

"Father?" she asked with a girlish giggle.

No reply.

Miya seemed to consider her father's position, then stood up. She turned and reached for the desk lamp; she knocked it over, took the papers from the desk, and walked back into the hallway as the flames slowly started eating away at the body left behind.

Miya emerged in a darkened servant's hallway, still carrying the papers. Beside her, another body emerged- a white faced ghost with a black hood and emerald eyes. He brushed his hand across her cheek and she sat; chakra charged smoke dispelled the illusions as sand grains dribbled from her face, running like water into a long canteen draped around the teen's belt. He picked up the papers, rolled them up, pushed them into a leather tube; stuck it into the long pocket hidden in the leg of his pants. He surveyed the mess on the front of the wooden monstrosity, then flicked a finger; the bandages wrapped around his middle flew out and began slithering around the puppet as blades clicked back into place, safely hidden.

He shouldered the marionette, glanced behind him; any second now someone would smell the smoke. The Miyagi always had their own personal firefighters on guard. Paranoid, the lot of them.

He wondered if anyone would find Miya.

Probably not. He hadn't left much of her.

She was pretty. Maybe he'd base a puppet off of her.

He managed to wait until he was outside the city, safe from prying eyes and having his cover blown, before he forced himself to hurl. It felt like the right thing to do.

**oOo**

Gaara stared down at the paper.

Miyagi-san's death had been reported the morning after it had occurred, with demands, complaints- why weren't any of your people there, how could this happen, did you hear how they found his daughter?

He remember the Fourth holding up a hand, and saying in that voice that he wished wasn't so much like Kankuro's, "What's done is done."

It had been obvious to those who saw the autopsies that a puppeteer had done it.

With barely a flick of his brow, Gaara reached for the next report, refusing to note that his hand was trembling ever-so-slightly in the flickering light of his desklamp.

**_A/N: First A rank mission, Assassination, complete. For those of you who didn't get it, as I wasn't sure I explained it clearly enough, Kankuro's canteen on his back carries normal sand mixed with the tiniest bit of Gaara's ultimate defense, which chakra-charges it and makes it easier to mold. We all know Kankuro can mold sand because it's how he disguises Karasu and Kuroari. And yes, Miyagi was shagging his daughter. No insult meant to the Miyagi of Karate Kid fame, all hail Pat Murota, may he rest in peace._ **


	3. Second Act

** Part 3 Second Act: Extermination**

_**A/N: not as disturbing as the last one. Maybe. **_

Note to self: Face worms spat acid.

...really, really NASTY acid.

Kankuro glared down at his sleeve, which was persistently smoking despite his best attempts to stare it into submission. One hand reached into his weapons pouch as he glanced over the large rocky outcropping at the creature writhing on the sand, making a noise akin to mica being ground between two large stones, or maybe the sound Baki made when he woke up and found his turban missing.

_'It'll be easy. Just a faceworm colony, you're trained for faceworms Simple. Just one measly little A rank solo mission.. When I get home I'm skewering someone until I feel better.'_

Faceworms were one of the Desert's many hidden dangers; Kankuro had been acclimated to them at a young age. Carnivorous beasts resembling the centipedes of Fire Country, faceworms roamed in colonies ranging in number from five or so to twenty, and they had appetites that matched their size. Younger faceworms, caught in raids on colonies, were brought to the hidden village where they were pitted against the more talented genins in betting pools disguised as sparring matches. More than one of Kankuro's acquaintances (for he had no friends) had lost an eye or worse to a baby faceworm.

And none of them had ever had to size up an adult.

"shit," the puppeteer repeated in a chorus as he dug through another pouch for smoke bombs, "Shit, shit, shitty shit- AHA!" he pulled the bombs out and flipped over easily, balancing on his toes as he watched his enemy.

She was thirteen feet if she was an inch, an queen faceworm; old and without a colony, but still hungry enough to stalk a tribe of the inner Desert's nomads. Her mandibles and long lower horns surrounded the handsome features of one of the Tribe boys she had not yet fully digested. Her twenty spindly legs were clicking, making sounds not unlike Karasu and for a wild moment Kankuro yearned to have his friend close; but such sophisticated puppets were useless against something that big, in an area with absolutely no cover.

Kankuro pulled the pin on the bombs, tossing them over the outcropping; they landed fifteen yards away from the worm and burst, sending a wave of acrid black smoke over their small battlefield. The creature roared in irritation as the smoke invaded her weak, milky eyes, clogging up her sensitive sense of smell. Kankuro was already running, chakra powered to his feet, to keep from sticking in the unforgiving sand (And if Gaara were here, then there wouldn't be a problem, because the sand always hardened up for Gaara, like running on a cobblestone road-) moving fast and low, a black blur against endless dunes of golden sand.

The worm twitched, turning, she could barely smell the paint; he reached for the scimitars crossed on his back. He rarely used them; rarely had to.

A jerk to the left, a flash to the right, and the worm was lacking in six legs. Her turnaround radius was just large enough that he ducked underneath her, shuddering at the feel of sharp exoskeleton across his back, rolling up on her other side as she screeched. The dead face she was using opened his eyes- in life, they had been blue; a half blood, not fully of the desert's stock- and opened his mouth.

The acid shot out in a harsh stream, but this time Kankuro was ready, and dodged to the right, hands running through transport seals, bringing him back once more to the outcropping (and if he made it out of this alive, he'd give the thing its own personal plaque, and then he'd commemorate it and maybe plant a shrub that might survive in this gods foresaken sun-)

A massive tail slammed down by his shoulder; he jerked away, staring fascinated at the large, wicked looking barb dripping bright orange fluid onto the sand.

I wonder if I can make a poison out of that.

The wind, an ever-changing constant, began shifting slightly, lifting the edges of his cowl, in the same way it did when Temari was about to open her fan. He blinked, inhaled; ozone. Ozone and sand, and for a single instant the flash of dead green eyes and the hoarse command to 'Move, trash.'...

He swore.

_Sandstorm._

The worm couldn't sense it coming. She was concentrating on finding the wretch that had blinded her.

Kankuro slid his scimitars back into their sheathes, watching the dune closest to him. The rasping sound was getting louder, an echo of millions of sand grains rattling together. He reached under his gloves, pulled at the bright crimson fighter's wrappings tied around his forearms; they were acid-burned, but still serviceable. He reached for two kunai, clenched them in even white teeth.

In the playhouse, there was a calming exercise they used before taking the stage; Dragon had taught it to him when he was five, a series of counting, taking in breath to the count of seven, holding it for seven counts, then releasing it to the same amount.

_"Remember, Crow, you've got all the time in the world. All the time you need."_

Kankuro felt his breath fall into this rhythm as he tugged a pair of goggles down over his eyes.

The faceworm would be helpless, her sense of smell still besotted by the smoke, her weak eyes blinded by the storm.

This was crazy. Stupid and reckless, Temari would call it. Foolhardy, Baki would say.

Gaara wouldn't say anything.

The storm raged over the dune like the pictures of tidal waves Kankuro had sometimes seen in books; the sun was blocked out, sudden shade warning the creature that not all was right. The wall of sand hit like Baki's windsword, but Kankuro was no ill-seasoned child; he was the son of Yondaime Kazekage, a puppeteer of Red Sands. He had survived Sabaku-no-Gaara.

A faceworm and a sandstorm?

Child's play.

Blinded by the grains of sand, the worm began to curl, going into defensive mode. She never saw the little black creature she had been hunting leap over the rock it had been hiding behind, running straight for her.

The red wrappings shot out, ribbons on chakra strings, their ends tied to long, wickedly sharp suna kunai. Once, twice, three times each they wrapped around the middle and back of the worm, jerking at Kankuro's direction into the rock he had been using as cover. With a surprised screech, the faceworm found itself tied to the rock, and to the ground, where its long body was no longer of service.

Moving around the sand, with the sand, Kankuro jumped, allowing the wind to drag him where it would; a single scimitar, burrowed into the softer midsection of the worm's body, stopped his ascent. Hand spikes were produced, chakra pushed to feet; he crawled up, past the spasming legs, to the single dented crease between armored back and neck.

When Kankuro was young, he had often sat in the corners of the local pubs, listening to the Sand Jounin telling harrowing tales of their missions in and outside their desert home; most would brag extensively about their last words to the faceworms they had killed.

Puppeteers don't waste words.

The scimitar came down, biting sharply into the faceworm's neck, because even if he didn't use them often, Kankuro liked his weapons sharp. The sandstorm's tail end scratched over his shoulders and down his back as the worm gave a single protesting screech and fell, head severed from body. Kankuro jumped from the carcass, performing a somersault that brought him just out of reach of the spray of blue-black blood as the sun came back.

The head had to be returned to the tribe of Deep Sands Nomads who had hired the village's services, as proof that the creature had been shuffled off the mortal coil; Kankuro was pleased with his acting skills- not a hint of emotion as the blue eyed boy's mother screamed over what was left of his face, still balanced between the faceworm's huge jaws.

The Tribe Elder looked at him for a while, after all the mourners had gone.

"you," he informed the painted wraith, "Are fearless."

Kankuro had to blink at that one. "What makes you say so?" he asked tonelessly, waving off the young medicine woman who had been seeing to his arm.

"The storm passed us by. It must have hit your battlefield. Yet here you stand, and here the worm is, and you are alive. Do you fear nothing, ninja hidden in the sand?"

Kankuro considered this; then he laughed, long and hard.

"Old man," he said, with a small smile, "Fearing nothing is stupid and reckless. Knowing WHAT to fear, now- that's another thing all together."

The old man nodded slowly, eyes hidden beneath thick white brows; he had lived a long time in this forsaken place. "You are wise, ninja. Beyond your years." He gestured towards the head, which lay on a copper plate on the table of his tent. "Take the horns, then, and the tail. You have earned them, _Kurobi._"

Kankuro walked home under the light of a full moon, and reflected in its face he saw a tanuki curled in sleep; and when he walked through the arc of the Kazekage's house, he was almost relieved to see Gaara perched on the roof, red sash flying like a banner in the soft wind.

It wasn't until later, when his arm had healed up, a new poison was distilled, and the horns were carved into bootknives that Kankuro learned that in the language of the Desert Nomads, ancient ancestors of the Shinobi, 'Kurobi' meant 'fearless'.

**oOo **

Gaara stared down at the report.

He had commented only a few days before on his brother's scar- the scour on his upper arm that had looked so much like a sand burn Gaara wanted to be positive that it hadn't been he who had done it.

"No," Kankuro had replied, with habitual smirk and halfway wink, "No, little bro, I promise it wasn't you."

He remembered the bootknives; long, slender things that marked Kankuro in Suna's underworld, for the images of diving crows carved into the handles.

Gaara leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his eyes. For a moment his heart clenched and he almost placed a hand over it, but the days when that was habit were slowly becoming dim memory.

He looked from one report to the other. Somewhere there was a connecting factor. Somewhere, there was a reason why their father had sent his brother to die, though Gaar himself was the one the council most wanted to bury.

Perhaps the last report would hold the answer.

_**A/N: and that's the end of Act 2, Extermination. Faceworms are a popular mythological creature- I always found them super creepy. Only a few more chapters to go! NOTE: the puppeteers mentioned are in no way canon. I simply refuse to think that Kankuro's the only one, and in Caithworld, all puppeteers are referred to by their fellows as their main or first puppet, hence Kankuro is 'Crow'. **_


	4. Third Act

** Part 4 Third Act: Infiltration**

"You're very good at that, Yukio-kun!"

The brunette blinked up at the girl, a blush crossing his features as he fumbled with the coarse cotton strings. "Naraku-san taught me how." He said, unable to look her full in the face. The girl laughed, tossing her dark purple hair. "You learn quickly then! Keep travelling with us and we'll make you a master puppeteer in no time!"

boy smiled sheepishly as he laid aside the expertly-tied marionette strings. The girl offered her hand and he took it, standing up. They headed down the hill towards where the traveling troupe known as Genji's Players had housed their colorful wagons, pulled into a protective circle in case of bandit attack. She separated from Yukio, headed for the other dancers, who called out greetings and waved their filmy scarves at her.

"Stop flirting with the new boy, Kaede!" one of her friends said. 'He's shyer than a sand mouse!"

"I know," said one of the others, flicking her scarf through the air. "Blushes like a sunburn as soon as you say something to him."

Kaede laughed. "Yukio-kun is sweet," she defended "He's just shy, that's all." Another girl rolled her eyes. "Sweet and shy never kept anyone's bed warm." She commented. "Now come on, let's get this routine down or that old bitch will have our heads before we make the next town in Fire Country."

Kaede nodded turned in a quick circle, looking for where she had dropped her scarf before going off to talk to Yukio. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the boy- and squinted. A shiver ran down her back as he disappeared into the wagon he'd been assigned to. Was it getting colder?

**oOo**

"Now listen up!" Naraku's voice was hardened and sharp by many years on the road. "We need to make enough in this next town to get to the land of Clouds, so if you've got it, flaunt it, don't be stingy!" she waved her purple coin-edged scarf at the dancing girls. "Do what you have to, you don't want us to starve, do you?"

The girls shook their heads as the men nodded along. Yukio crouched in the corner. Naraku turned her grizzled gaze to him. "Boy? You have something to say?"

Yukio flushed and looked at his knees. The girls giggled; the boys began whispering.

"Alright, then. Everyone get ready to move out!"

The play they performed that night in front of the Painted Lantern Inn was a simplistic one; full of bawdy humor and dirty lymricks, things that pulled the money in without a lot of effort. Their masks were peeling and their costumes had patches but the theatre is an amazing thing; with the notes of a flute and the whisper of silk it was as if they were on the finest stage in the land. Behind the play the other members of the troupe hustled and bustled, moving around; Yukio had been ordered to 'stay _put´ _and sat quietly in the corner, watching. The flicker of the light against his eyes made them burn, and if anyone had paid attention they would have seen him smile and been afraid; but they didn't.

Naraku drove a hard bargain; many grumbled over her prices for seating but they left smiling, and some of them didn't leave at all, enticed behind the brightly painted wagons by the dancing girls or boys. The grizzled old Troupe Leader thought she spied a few mixed hitai-ate in the midst of the civilians; it didn't worry her.

She understood ninja.

She walked past Kaede in a corner, enticing a young man with a bum left arm; her red scarf was drawn over her mouth, hiding her smile. She grinned at Naraku as the old woman walked by but didn't look directly at her; Kaede's acting skills were second to none.

"What was that?" the man she had been seducing asked, glancing nervously into the darker recesses of the alleyway. She tugged lightly on his threadbare lapels. "Focus on me, sweet." She murmured. "Not some alley cat. I'd think I'm a far prettier kitty..."

The man grinned lopsidedly at her, leaning in; he'd been drinking. She hid her disgusted look with her scarf, nudging him lightly, forcing his lips against her collarbone instead of her mouth. His tongue began moving lower and she shifted, allowing him more access-

The red sprayed across her bare stomach in a hot splash.

"Always wind up killing the pretty ones, don't we, Karasu?" his painted smile was wide. He wasn't blushing.

"What's wrong, Kaede-chan? Cat got your tongue?"

She tried to scream, to cry out for help- and then a needle hit her throat. She choked, coughed- she couldn't breathe, why couldn't she BREATHE?

"Now now now, don't be like that. It's just business, you know." He stepped lithely over the body of the man he'd just killed, the eerie wooden form grinning at her, floating in space behind him. Yukio's smile quirked. She hacked; her fingers were going numb.

"Yu-kio..?" she knew she had bitten through her own tongue but she couldn't feel it; she couldn't feel anything. He knelt down beside her, and his green eyes were cold.

"Not exactly." He whispered.

**oOo**

They were all dead.

Naraku leaned on her cane, observing the corpses of the three mist-nin she'd been meeting. They were displayed quite artfully in the shape of an hourglass- one poor fool had been cut in half to make the top and bottom of the symbol. The packed ground below them was stained darkly.

"Hn." She said.

"You should have covered your tracks, Naraku-san." A voice said conversationally. "You were really sloppy."

The old woman glanced sharply into the darkness; the medallions on her scarf jingled. "I have my ways." She said sharply, reaching for her hidden dagger.

"I'm sure you do, Naraku-san. But so do I."

She caught the barest flash of movement.

"What do you want from me?" she said, withdrawing the dagger. It was old, with a wobbly handle; it had seen two husbands and many lovers. Her old eyes searched the shadows.

"We don't want anything, Naraku-san. But if you don't mind..."

She didn't have time to scream as her vision was filled with a vibrant red.

"..I need to borrow your jaw."

**oOo **

Actually NAILING her to the door was a pain in the ass; there was no training course or instructional scroll that could explain how to nail human flesh to a piece of wood without waking an entire traveling troupe of actors. Thank goodness they were mostly drunk or it would have been an even bigger pain in the ass.

The jaw part was easy; he had the heavy-duty thread he used on Karasu's cloak, a packet of thin needles, and the instructions his sister had jammed into his brain over three training periods and a ripped sleeve just before annual inspection. He brushed hair out of her face and then stood back to admire his handiwork. Karasu clicked.

"You're right." He said. "It needs something else."

He reached into his weapons pouch and withdrew a paintbrush. Good thing he had enough ink to work with. He laid the brush's point delicately into Kaede's dripping ear and began.

When he finally decided he was done, he jumped lithely from the wagon's main step to the trees. Once there, he observed the red and purple scarves wrapped around his arm. He allowed his lips to quirk a little bit.

"I'm getting sick in my old age." He commented to Karasu. "Taking souvenirs. Next thing you know I'll be killing people with Sand and then storing it in a giant gourd or something."

He stood up straight and gave a perfect bow, bunraku cowl in his hand.

"Genji's Players, you've been a marvelous audience." He said. With that, he turned and moved through the trees, heading for the horizon and the massive stone walls of the Hidden Village of Sand.

**oOo **

Gaara stared down at the report.

_"Older woman's jaw stitched onto younger woman's body nailed to wagon door. Warning written on younger woman. Mist nin eliminated. Suggest immediate reconnaissance to Village Hidden in the Mist in order to recover what was lost. Complete elimination of Troupe recommended."_

Neat, concise, elegant. Each letter perfectly aligned in a hand trained by the most skilled teachers one could afford.

_Complete elimination of Troupe recommended. _

Gaara felt sand fill his palms as his fingernails began to break skin.

He stood up, forcing his chair back with a hard rattle. He rose one hand to his forehead, making a single sign. Sandgrains swirled up around him in long curved lines as the sudden darkness of a transport came upon him.

The door that stood in front of him was the one set deepest into the citadel they shared; a single bronze kanji glittered dimly in the light of the hallway, inlaid into the wood. He glared at the word 'perform'.

For a moment he hesitated. The kanji seemed to glint at him, like the flash of Kankuro's knife-bright smile in the dark. He could feel the faintest brush of his brother's chakra against his mind; a greased whisper to Temari's forceful gust.

Kankuro was waiting.

He rose his hand to knock-

-and the door opened.

Kankuro leaned against the door frame, wearing a black robe and two long streaked purple lines from his eyes to the bottom of his cheeks. In one hand was a habitual kunai, in the other a woodcarving tool. He blinked through a wave of his messy brown hair down at the papers still gripped vice-like in his brother's hand. In the flickering lights, his emerald eyes looked old.

"I was wondering when you'd find those." He said.

_**A.N: Okay, I SWEAR I wasn't gonna make Kankuro a complete psychopath. But, uh, he kind of IS a complete psychopath. I do not apologize. He's an awesome psychopath. Don't worry, explanations are forthcoming. I PROMISE. **_


	5. Fourth Act The Puppeteer's Lucky Number

**Part 5 Fourth Act: The Puppeteer's Lucky Number**

"Well?" Kankuro shifted fluidly away from the doorframe. "You coming in or what?"

Gaara stepped across the threshold with what he hoped was serious determination; the door clanged shut behind him as Kankuro took up the lead.

Kankuro's rooms- more commonly called his 'lair' by the irate cleaning staff- consisted of three chambers, the first one connected to the others by a short hallway filled with niches that contained burning candles. Long thin windows vented air out to street level. This first room was basic- a ninja's bedroom, with bed, dresser, and table. Several scroll racks were scattered along the walls and on the wall closest to the bed was a single set of hooks. Gaara glanced their way and gave a curt nod to Karasu, who hung as if sleeping.

Kankuro led him through the bedroom and the small hallway, seemingly oblivious to the close quarters; as a child the puppeteer could move easily through the passageways but age had added a few feet to him, and his broad shoulders almost brushed the walls. Gaara followed close behind, the light of the candles reflecting in his eyes as he entered the first of Kankuro's two workshops.

This was the puppet room; heads, torsos, limbs, some painted and some not, all hung from the ceiling. There were three long, thick worktables, the closest of which had a lamp burning brightly. Gaara could see the wooden chunks half-carved into a shape which he instantly recognized as the head of a raccoon. Beyond the tables and cabinets there was another door, closed with a large lock and several nasty surprises; no one but Kankuro ever went in there.

Kankuro sat down on the bench, gently shifting the puppet aside and patting the wood beside him; Gaara sat as well, laying the three pieces of paper out neatly in a fan. Kankuro brushed them with long fingers.

"Can you explain these?" Gaara asked.

Kankuro rose a brow. "What is there to explain? They're mission reports. You've written enough of them."

Gaara's eyes narrowed as he recognized one of his brother's many masks easily erected. "Kankuro." He said firmly. "Consider it an order from your Kazekage. I want an explanation. When did you go on these missions, and why?"

Kankuro leaned forward, studying his handwriting. "Mission replacement." He said. "You know the rule."

And Gaara did. In other hidden villages any ninja could turn down any mission- ill health, a personal affiliation with the client, the list was endless. But in the Hidden Village of Sand, which was in constant peril of losing both patrons and funding, no nin was allowed to turn down a mission- and those few foolish enough to try were often given missions much harder than the one they had been assigned as replacements.

Gaara blinked.

"You turned down three A ranked missions?" he asked, a tinge of disbelief coloring his tone.

Kankuro nodded. "Pretty much." He said with a smile. "Didn't feel like it, you know?"

"And what," Gaara said, attempting to keep his voice level, "was so boring to you that you felt the need to assassinate a political leader, single-handedly defeat a faceworm, and infiltrate an acting troupe to utterly destroy it from the inside out?"

"It wasn't boring, little brother." Kankuro said sharply. "I just didn't want to."

"And you wanted to do these things?" Gaara asked. Kankuro looked evenly at him. "A job is a job out here, little brother. If you were to assign me something like this I'd do it too."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" Kankuro asked.

"Stop acting for me." Gaara said bluntly. "You might have all of Sunakagure fooled but not me. You will tell me what missions you replaced and why. And you will tell me now."

In the lamplight Kankuro's paint seemed to stretch, like the mask of an oni in a play; he leaned back against the table, thoughtful, afraid. Gaara watched in quiet fascination as the mask was carefully diassembled and put away. Kankuro looked at him.

"It wasn't three different missions." He said quietly. "It was the same mission three times."

Gaara felt his blood run cold.

There was only one running mission in Sunakagure.

**oOo**

_"No."_

_The Kazekage looks up from his desk, sharp emerald eyes catching an identical set that face him. The young puppeteer stands at complete attention but there is a determined set to his jawline, his too-wide mouth a thin line._

_"Excuse me?" the Kazekage purrs._

_"I refuse the mission." As an afterthought, "sir."_

_The Kazekage steeples his fingers, one elegant eyebrow lifting as he looks the genin over. "Did you just refuse a mission, ninja?" he asked, and his voice is the sound of a desert viper's scales sliding over rock- quiet, dangerous._

_"Yes sir." The young puppeteer responds. "I did."_

_"Well then." The man looks over the pile of documents before him. "Let's see if I can find a suitable replacement, shall we?"_

_He shuffles the papers at an agonizingly slow pace; but the blackclad boy doesn't move an inch, face as firm as though it has been carved in stone, and only when his Leader holds out a folder does he move._

_"The Miyagi have been a pain for far too long. The client..." the Kazekage pauses, as though relishing the words. "wants it traumatizingly painful. We must give the client what they want, Kankuro."_

_"Yes, sir." The puppeteer replies, turns, heads for the door._

_"Kankuro?"_

_He paused; there was a bit of a tremble to his fingers. "Yes, sir?"_

_"I hope that you'll think twice next time. You disappoint me."_

**oOo**

Kankuro took the papers, looking them over. "Oh, Miyagi. Sick old bastard. He was banging his daughter, you know. Guy was a lost cause."

**oOo**

_The second time it happens, there is yelling, two raised voices almost alike in pitch and volume; and when he exits the office with his mission orders, no one meets his eyes. He stalks quietly down the hall, pauses, and sidesteps into a shadow; he reappears in the midst of the Red Sands main court._

_"Crow?" one of the others asks, his blue painted face concerned._

_"I need to talk to Mantis." The young man says. "I need to know about faceworms."_

**oOo**

He flipped to the next one. "Ah. Fun times. Did you know faceworms take forever to react to sandstorms? They can't feel them coming if they're in combat mode. It's a nifty little trivia bit."

**oOo**

_"I had hoped that by now you would know better."_

_The papers are offered; he takes them._

_"Discovery means death. Memorize it."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_The wagons are stopped at a village just outside of the City of Wind; a beautiful girl dressed in red approaches him._

_"Yukio? You're Yukio, aren't you?" he nods, and she assumes he is too scared, or perhaps awed, to speak. "Oh, good. I'll introduce you to Naraku. She's our Troupe Master. Bitter old bitch, but at least we make money."_

_He doesn't tell her he knows more about Naraku than she could ever imagine. Yukio isn't a ninja. Yukio doesn't even exist._

**oOo**

He read the last paper, eyes soft. "Poor Genji's players. They weren't the best, but they were pretty good. Too bad they were smuggling info. Heh- Godaime wanted to know why I didn't just kill them all. I told him it was caus' it would be too suspicious. Really, I just didn't want to be bothered."

He looked up.

Gaara was staring at him.

He quirked his lips in a puppeteer's smile, though his eyes were sad.

"Mission 1023098." He recited. "Open to all Shinobi of the Hidden Village in the Sand, to be assigned at any time. The assassination of the container of the demon Shukaku." He chuckled. "Probably woulda' tried to assign it a fourth time but then we had that crazy idea to take over a village hidden in some leaves somewhere. Three always was my lucky number."

Sand whirled around the room, mixing with sawdust; Kankuro's arm came up to shield his eyes in a motion that had long ago become as much a habit as breathing. When the dust finally settled, Gaara was gone, but the mission reports remained on the table.

Kankuro glanced at them and then stood up, walking back through the corridor to his bedroom. He sat on the bed and looked up at Karasu, who was grinning grotesquely at him.

"Think we should go find him?" he asked. The puppet's wooden jaw clicked. He nodded.

"Right. Lemme find my shoes."

_**A/N: One more chapter, I think. And so the mystery of the three assigned missions comes to light. What's going to happen next?..pft, who am I kidding, I don't know at all.**_


	6. Final Act As The Curtain Falls

**Part 6, Final Act: As The Curtain Falls**

He hadn't been standing on the balcony for more than ten minutes before Kankuro appeared. Normally his brother moved on silent feet, a shadow within a shadow; but he made the slightest scuff with the edge of his well worn sandal, a warning. _I am coming, _he was saying, _and if you don't want me here, then show me. _But Gaara didn't twitch. Kankuro came up behind him and the Kazekage noted with surprise that Karasu was draped over his shoulders.

"He didn't want to be left out." Was the only explanation Kankuro offered.

"How did you know where to look?" Gaara asked, hating how dull- how pre-chunin exam- his voice sounded.

"Highest point in Sunakagure. You can feel the wind, see the sand and the village, and you don't have to warn the ANBU that you're headed to the Wall." Kankuro leaned against the railing. "You're a creature of habit, little brother."

"Why?" Gaara turned, glaring at Kankuro, who looked calmly back at him.

"Why what?" the puppeteer responded patiently. "Remember Baki's rules, Gaara. You won't get the right answer..."

"Unless you ask the right question." Gaara finished the saying that had been drilled into them time and time again. "Fine, then. Why did you refuse the mission?"

Kankuro straightened up; Gaara almost flinched as two long fingers slid under his chin, forcing him to look up the five or so inches that separated him from his much taller brother. The look on Kankuro's face wasn't one Gaara recognized; it was amusement and love and perhaps guilt all rolled into one.

"It wasn't just one reason, bro." Kankuro said quietly. "There were a few."

"Then tell me." Gaara demanded. "Write me a book if you have to, Kankuro."

The puppet-nin smiled. "I don't think it'll take quite that long." He said, releasing Gaara and leaning against the railing. Karasu settled between them, leaning against his master's leg as Kankuro tilted his head back. "Stars are pretty tonight." He said absently.

"Kankuro."

"I was afraid." Kankuro said bluntly. "You know it and I know it so it's pointless to try and hide it." His eyes hardened. "But I was NEVER afraid of you, Gaara." He continued. "But then.. it wasn't you. It was Him. I was a kid. I knew I couldn't handle something like Shukaku and I'd die trying. You'd made it perfectly clear by then that I wasn't anything to you and neither was Temari."

At Gaara's look Kankuro caught his eyes and held them, expression serious. "That was a long time ago, Gaara." He said. "You've changed. But this was then." He sat up a little straighter.

"You said there was more than one reason." Gaara replied. Kankuro nodded.

"So I did." He said, and suddenly he seemed weary. "Gaara...he was asking me to kill you. It might have been a mission assigned by the Kazekage but he was still telling me to end the life of someone I-" he bit his lip.

"Someone you what?" Gaara asked, suddenly urgent; he needed this answer, more than he needed anything else.

"Someone I love."

The words were almost snatched away by the harsh desert wind, but Gaara heard them; and he stared with wide eyed wonder as Kankuro's hands tightened on the railing.

"I was a shitty older brother." Kankuro sounded harsher now, as though he was forcing out something he'd been holding inside for years. "I know I was, but damn it, he was telling me to murder my sibling! And even though you didn't think I was...was worthy of your time you were still a member of my TEAM! Everything Baki ever taught us- everything this village holds dear, honor to a teammate, strength, truth- he was throwing them all back in my face for the rule of 'always taking the mission'!"

Gaara blinked in surprise and alarm as Karasu began clicking rapidly. Temari had explained it, after their mission to rescue Konoha's genin. Kankuro had been disturbed by the state he had found his rescuee in, and when Temari had attempted to place a hand on his shoulder- a gesture Gaara later recognized as one that was meant to comfort- Karasu's bundle had begun making that same noise.

_'it's something a puppet will do, Gaara, especially a puppeteer's main weapon. Karasu's so chock full of Kankuro's chakra that when something happens- when Kankuro's angry, or sad, or even sick- he will react. It's a little like throwing a rock into a sand dune and the grains going all over. The clicking noise, it's a warning that puppeteers use for one another, like a snake's rattle.'_

Gaara remembered being vaguely ashamed that he'd never realized how close Kankuro and his puppet were, though throughout his life he could pinpoint many instances of his brother treating the weapon better than he did most people.

_Thank you, _he uttered silently to the wooden monstrosity and quickly closed the gap between them, stepping carefully over Karasu's arms to enfold his brother in some semblance of a hug. Physical contact was something that Gaara had only recently become aquainted with- and only then because Temari had tentatively begun to hug him more.

It was awkward, it was scratchy, and it made Gaara feel more than a little claustrophobic but none of that mattered. Kankuro's arms wrapped around him, and his older brother's head rested with a soft thud on his collarbone as the Sand rose up, assessing the threat and then settling back down.

"I couldn't do it." Kankuro whispered into his coat. "Even if I wasn't your brother you were still mine."

He caught Gaara's gaze. "My heart's not big enough." He whispered dully. "Miyagi..those villagers..Genji's Players...none of them mattered. I couldn't care about them. I didn't have it in me to _care." _He brushed a stray hair out of Gaara's face, away from the dark red 'ai' scar over his eye. "You are worth more than all of them." Kankuro whispered into Gaara's ear. "And I'd do it a hundred times over again if it meant I could turn that mission down."

My most precious people...

"Am I..?" Gaara whispered, digging his fingernails into Kankuro's shoulders. "Am I a precious person?"

Despite himself, Kankuro had to smile, and his mind wandered back- over the sand that he'd taken for the Miyagi assassination, fearing for his life the entire time; over the listening he'd done while fighting the faceworm, moving his body in time to an imaginary Gaara in the middle of a sabaku-formed sandstorm; to the color of Naraku and Kaede's scarves, and his idle thought that they reminded him so much of his siblings.

A soft rustle of coarse fabric heralded Karasu loosely wrapping his four arms around Gaara's back, as Kankuro's own limbs draped over his shoulder. The sand rasped harshly, an automatic reaction reigned in as Gaara stared at Kankuro.

A thin string stretched between them; ties of blood and brotherhood that neither really understood but didn't want to let go of. The older brother's painted forehead hit his Kazekage's with a soft thud, and even through the paint, Gaara knew that the smile wasn't one that could be acted.

He must have smiled that way every time he came back alive. Every time he turned the mission down again.

"Yes." Kankuro said softly. "You are."

Behind Gaara, Karasu chirped in agreement.

**oOo **

The paths were long, masterfully done; a powerful opponent had done this.

Kankuro glared at the many different trails, thin chakra strings lifting from his fingertips, searching, searching- THERE!

The barest glimmer of his brother's chakra. That all-consuming power crammed into tiny grains, scattered on the ground as his sand armor began to wear off- tracks as clear as if Gaara had drawn a line in the sand.

"_Am I a precious person?" _

Kankuro readjusted the straps on his shoulders.

"Mission: Rescue-the-Kazekage-and-then-kick-his-ass-for-letting-himself-get-caught-in-the-first-place," He said to himself, khol-lined eyes narrowed grimly at the horizon. "Accepted."

Locked within their scrolls, his puppets clicked.

**oOo **

_**A/N: -falls over- It's done! God I never thought I'd do it. I can't say I'm entirely thrilled with this last chapter, but I hope it is warm-fuzzy enough for all of you, twas' my intention. Quick note on Karasu's clicking: I just thought it was an awesome idea. Someday I'll do something with just those puppets, who might as well be characters in their own right. You'd think by now I'd stop making stuff up about the puppeteers in Caithworld but I'm just having waayyy too much fun. **_


End file.
